It
Who no longer can listen
It
Saw a gusty wind
Come up to listen
Before I was ten
and all of the evil grids
From a hill where rats consider
And they gang
And they topple
And they send a smoke ring
Into the onion field
A ghost!
And this can make you choke
Coming from the throat
Of a ghost!
And sent to my weak knees
From a voice plantation
All in together
In terror

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

scabland

oh. the lines inside the face were running deeper. to a river, running deeper.

oh. the downwards facing settlements, memories of fear, noone takes a brighter spark. erupts. and helps you walk into the garden. just as everything went black.

oh. and noones left inside the garden. noones dancing caring living, but the memories run deep.

oh. when the site is cleared it's all you see it's all you feel and all is healed.

oh. take a turn and scatter movements so the shadows know you inside out and follow you and take good care of you.

oh. was the world too dirty for a drunken sailor. dirty vast scablands cover the green meadows where you stood.

burn the cake and eat it a faster rounddid it spin to fire were you hurt

scabland feel mei'm aliveburning picturesscatter downis the face a dim lightor on firedid it clean the next roundfeed you light

oh. do you come into a desert town and stare and noone feels you coming closer and it's ending and it's fine but did you notice it still spins though all you did was say the word and all you said was be on fire....

About Me

Welcome to my online scrapbook: there is no real focus here but you will find writings about music, literature, arts, walks, 80s and 90s nostalgia etc., some creative writing, lots of photography and other experiments in presenting thoughts and recordings of who i am, what i do and where i am going. hope you enjoy it!